But if I’m really going to be confessing here, I was bragging more than anything else.
I tried not to laugh. I tried! Heard him grumbling. Finally he asked me if there was anything else.
I said: So much more. So many more.
I hustled out of there and straight to Finny’s. I gave it a shot anyway.
I know there are other things Tee thinks I should be talking about. But I ain’t ready yet, might never be. I still can’t tell if they’re a burden or a comfort, these secrets of mine. Is it going to make me feel better or worse if someone knows the truth about me?
George Flicker
It was a strange thing, this being Catholic all of a sudden. Look, I don’t think she was 100 percent Catholic, whatever that means anyway. But she was always palling around with that nun, you’d see them walking in the streets, arm in arm, whispering in each other’s ear. And she definitely went to church, here and there. She prayed to that guy. I don’t know if she went all the way and converted, or anything like that. The strangest part of all of it was Mazie believing in any sort of organized anything, because that family had not stepped foot inside a synagogue in years, if ever.
But you know, whatever works. I believe in that. Whatever works, whatever gives you hope.
Mazie’s Diary, November 1, 1926
Twenty-nine now.
New home. Always a new home. There’s nothing new about a new home. What would be new is if we stayed somewhere.
Pete Sorensen
So after her twenty-ninth birthday, this is right about when the diary starts to drop off for a while. I had one theory, which was Mazie was sad the Captain didn’t show up again, and so she just got real quiet. She was hoping for it but didn’t want to say it out loud. Maybe it’s something she prayed for, but just couldn’t tell anyone about it.
I had this other theory that all the excitement happens when we’re younger. Everything feels so big then because you’re learning all the important lessons. When I toured with my band, I was twenty-two and twenty-three and it was, like, every day my mind got blown with a new experience. Mostly it was a new girl, but that counts, right? [Laughs.] Then I was twenty-four and it started to feel familiar, and then I was twenty-five and none of it felt new anymore. My brain slowed, the world slowed. I stopped seeing things with fresh eyes. I started to realize what I knew.
After that, we really only see her checking in three or four times a year for a while. But she doesn’t miss her birthday too often. I’m not big on them myself; I don’t like all the fuss. You know, maybe knock back a beer with your buddies. But I get it; it’s a way to mark time. When your life’s too busy, it forces you to check in with yourself. Or when it feels all the same all the time, maybe it can make you feel special. I’m not knocking Mazie for caring about her birthday.
But I really started missing that time, those days of hers that were gone that I was never going to know about. I wanted to see everything she saw. Also I was worried about everyone. I was like, how’s Rosie, how’s Jeanie, how’s Tee? I felt a little greedy, like why couldn’t I know everything about their time. How would you like it if someone you cared about just disappeared on you?
Mazie’s Diary, April 4, 1927
6 Clinton Street. A married couple beneath us, older than us, no children. He’s a librarian, and she’s a teacher. Jews. Quiet, smart Jews. They seem kind.
She said: Maybe I’ll borrow some books.
I said: Maybe you’ll learn something from them.
She said: What do they know that I don’t? You think they’re smarter than me?
I don’t care what she thinks. There’s a bakery next door, and when we open our windows every morning, in comes the smell of bread. I wear the scent all over me, and it lasts for hours.
Mazie’s Diary, May 1, 1927
Tee showed up late at the cage. I hadn’t seen her in weeks. Rapped her wee knuckles on the cage. Her skin was pink.
I said: To what do I owe the pleasure?
She said: No reason. It’s just a nice night. Walk me home. Talk to me about the world.
She was coming from a shelter. She seemed down. I knew I should go home to Rosie, but it cost me nothing to give a little of my love to Tee.
So we walked downtown, through Park Row, past City Hall, down Broadway. We talked about all the money in this town lately, more than usual it seemed. Everyone’s so giddy but it can’t last. The city’s pregnant with hope, but only that. New construction everywhere we looked. It’s made of air, this money, this wealth. It’s not real.
I told her about this new film Rudy’s talking about, coming out this fall. A talking movie. He thinks everything’s going to change. Tee told me nothing will change for those less fortunate, the poor and the hungry. She never lets up, that Tee. But I couldn’t argue with her.
She asked about the new apartment, if we’d be staying awhile. I told her Rosie’s fine for now, but I’m never sure of anything with her. I don’t think she sleeps anymore at all, but I can’t be certain.
I said: I never unpack all my boxes.
She said: And how does that make you feel?
I said: I’m used to it now. I miss some of my shoes though.
That made her laugh. My vanity entertains her.
We stopped in front of the Seton Shrine. Her favorite of all the saints. Tee loves her because she started an entire school system, and she helped poor children, too.
I said: You’re as good as she is.
Then we were at her house.
She said: Come up, I’ve got chocolates.
I said: Slow down, slow down. Chocolates? You’re a wild one, Sister Tee.
It’s been a long time since I’ve slept there, and only twice before. Rosie doesn’t like it when I don’t come home at night. We sleep together not as sisters, but not as lovers, either. She could never give in to that. She’s not as bold as me. Although there is love. And we hold each other. What comfort it is to be held, and to hold. So tiny beneath me, our chests pressed tight. We are silent, and we hold each other. I said but one thing, and I don’t know where it came from. I just sighed it out of me.
I said: You’re divine.
And then she wept.
She said: I’m not sad, I promise. It’s just the pleasure of it all.
Pete Sorensen
I kept wishing a nice guy would show up. But then I realized she had Tee.
Mazie’s Diary, November 1, 1927
Thirty. How? Thirty.
Mazie’s Diary, February 2, 1928
Rosie says she can’t breathe the same anymore. Bad air. The wheat from the bakery, it’s in her lungs. It’s been building up for months and now it’s trapped in there. She claims.
I said: You liar.
She said: Listen. Listen to me wheeze.
I begged her. Please let me stay here. Let me stay near the fresh loaves of bread in the morning and the kind and quiet Jews with their heads in books and the Bowery up the road.
I said: We were getting comfortable. Don’t you feel it? Don’t you feel calm?
She said: I can’t breathe.
Mazie’s Diary, April 1, 1928
The hustling I do. 14 Division Street. Over Louis’s aunt Josie’s dress shop. The only apartment in the building. Just us and Josie. A kitchen cut from diamonds. A window out onto the markets. New dresses for Rosie every day if she likes. New dresses for me as well.
I said: We will stay here, Rosie.
She said: We’ll see.
Am I allowed to unpack? Can we look inside these boxes at last?
Mazie’s Diary, November 1, 1928